


When in Rome

by haleyross



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Masturbation, Merry Michaelmas 2020, Michael-centric, Michaelmas, Other, Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Smut, fleshlight, you know where this is going
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26718544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haleyross/pseuds/haleyross
Summary: Michael finds Lucifer's toy chest and his disgust quickly turns into curiosity
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	When in Rome

\-----

Michael stands nude in front of a floor-length mirror in Lucifer's bedroom, affecting the accent of his brother. That suave, British flare that makes every word sound like sex. The one that is as annoying as it is effective.

"Hello there, I'm Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar.”

No, that doesn't quite sound right.

If he was going to convince Lucifer's friends that he was his shit-head of a brother, he needed to really nail his accent.

"Mo-rning-stah," he says again, drawing out the "o" in morning and rounding out the "r" in star.

Yes, that's it, he tells himself. More …narcissistic.

Like he had not a single care in the world. Well, except for what he wanted, what he _desired_.

He chuckles to himself, thinking about all the things he is going to break.

Slowly his smile falls.

"I am the devil," he says with strength and passion behind his words.

"I am a _devil_ of my word," he says, adding more feeling into it.

He is amused at how uncanny the accent is. Playing his brother was not at all complicated. It's a shame Michael got all the brains of the pair, otherwise invading Lucifer's life might have been an _actual_ challenge.

"Devil," he repeats.

Yes, that's it. That's perfect.

He grunts, entertained.

He sighs, pleased with his acting. He tilts himself too far to one side, and his finger - the one on his weak side - starts to jump. His nerves ache for a change, for movement.

That gets him thinking.

He could affect the accent when he is relaxed, when his body was twisted in a way that felt moderately comfortable, but Lucifer wasn't broken.

Lucifer wasn't twisted and changed. He would need to have the energy to do the accent with his back straight. With the pain and tension.

He takes in a deep breath and fights past the pain to straighten his back, sudden energy in his frame. It aches and pulls at muscle, but he seems to take it in stride. He is an angel, and his pain tolerance is astronomical.

That is, he can tolerate it, but it still hurts like a bitch.

"Hello there," he says, a fake smile on his face, "I'm Lucifer. Lucifer Morningstar."

He clasps his hands in front of him.

"Hello, Detective," he says, his smile falling, "I would never _lie_."

He lowers his head, his eyes doing that thing his brother does, softening just slightly.

"Not to you, Detective."

Then his eyes do something else. They change into a pleased glare. His lips fall, and a sinister smile peels onto his face.

"Detective," he says again, thinking about how fun it will be to prove to everyone Lucifer is what he has always been, a fraud.

Slowly his back slouches, his body contorting into a position that is much more comfortable for him. He huffs, amused.

It's almost _too_ easy.

He chuckles and turns, ready to prepare himself for the day ahead. He walks towards the closet, but his eyes land on the bar. If he were supposed to inhabit all things Lucifer, he thinks… he _supposes_ he should start with Lucifer's favorite breakfast; alcohol.

He descends the steps to the living room and approaches the bar. Here, a decanter of whiskey sits atop the bar in wait.

He grunts.

Dark liquor was his brother's favorite, but he detested the taste of it, _especially_ whiskey.

He walks behind the bar and gazes upon the rows and rows of alcohol bottles. His eyes land on a delightfully clear gin before taking it down from the bar. He pours himself a shot as he looks around.

The penthouse was nice, save for the destroyed piano. It had an excellent view of the city and the comfort befitting one of God's creatures. He scoffs.

How could Lucifer have such nice things when all he does is whine?

Father did this, Father did that. He never takes responsibility for anything, and yet the _one_ time he does, _he's_ the fucking hero.

Michael knocks back the shot of gin. It burns smoothly down the back of his throat, and he hums into it.

He pours two shots full of gin into the glass, sips half of it, and then sets the glass down on the counter. Now he can get dressed.

He had to make sure he was particular about his clothing choices. He was going to see the mortal his brother likes to call the "Detective." If anyone was going to find out about him, it was going to be her. He needed to get this right, starting with making sure he wore the clothing his brother would wear.

He walks into the closet and looks around. He couldn't very well wear the suit he wore the previous evening when he had appeared in her time of need.

Lucifer was prissy about his clothing and certainly wouldn't be caught in the same suits two days in a row. At least, not without making some big show about having slept with a woman the night prior.

Michael pauses.

It had been centuries since he was last with a woman. The small ache of loneliness begins to develop in his core. He stares out, lost in a narrowing funnel of thoughts.

He snaps his eyes shut and shakes those thoughts out. He reaches a hand out to a suit.

Suits, he scoffs.

It was too much like his brother to make something simple so … complicated.

Michael was far more simplistic when it came to his adornments. A turtleneck and a pair of jeans were all he needed. If he felt like spicing it up, felt like looking nice, he might toss a blazer on it.

Lucifer, however, had to be the prom king. Always a three-piece suit and expensive accessories. Always a showman, vying for the attention of others.

He narrows his eyes.

Always _getting_ the attention of others.

He grunts, hating the idea of a full suit. Perhaps he would start somewhere simple. It wasn't like Lucifer to wear undergarments, but Michael would rather keep his genitals more contained. There were no white briefs, so the clean black boxer briefs folded simply in a drawer would do. He takes it out and drapes it over his shoulder.

Next, a suit.

He eyeballs the suits, all hung in neat color-coded rows on the left side of Lucifer's closet. He is trying to decide when his curious eyes catch the edge of an intricately gilded trunk. It sits in the corner below the area where Lucifer's silk pajamas are hung.

"What is this?" Michael asks himself as he peels the underwear off his shoulder and discards it onto a nearby dressing chair.

He leans forward and grabs onto the edge of the trunk, pulling it out from the dark corner. It is heavy, and the metal buckles that lock the lid down barely swing through the jolt.

"Oh my," he says, a sadistic grin on his face, "Something you're trying to hide, brother?"

Quickly he undoes the locks, giddy about the prospect of being able to use something against Lucifer. What could it be?

A collection of "borrowed" celestial weaponry?

Maybe something that could permanently lock him in hell?

Or a secret? Better yet, something he’s kept from his precious Detective.

There is way more adrenaline coursing through his veins than there should be. It all but disappears into confusion and horror when he swings open the lid to find a tray of cleaned and neatly stacked sex toys.

"What?" he says, completely confused.

"What is-"he says, leaning forward to grab a strange beaded rope.

He looks at it for a moment before it dawns on him what it is and where it goes. He tosses it onto the floor, disgusted.

"Ugh," he grunts.

He stares into the chest, seeing all manner of whips and chains - molded penises of all shapes and … _detail_.

"This is what he chooses to do with his time?" he grunts.

He scoffs and reaches in to pull the tray up. Curious to see how deep this rabbit hole goes. When he lifts up the tray, however, he sees a completely different sight. Boxes, still wrapped up in plastic, neatly stacked and unopened.

He furrows his eyebrows.

"New?" he asks, "Why would he waste resources on more genital stimulation?"

He sets the tray aside and reaches in to look at the boxes only to find more molded penises, more handcuffs, and ball gags.

He shakes his head with each new box he pulls out, his back curved forward as he kneels by the trunk.

Dildoes, butt plugs, edible underwear.

The list goes on and on until Michael is no longer surprised at the objects themselves, but more so the sheer _variety._

Then he reaches in and pulls out a smooth black box. He turns it over, and his eyes widen. This is something new.

"Fleshlight," he says, reading the box.

He turns it around and sees _exactly_ what a fleshlight is. A plastic tube with an opening that resembles the female genitals.

He stares at it, shocked.

Out of all the things that mortals come up with, he thinks as he shakes his head.

Still, of all the things in the chest, _this_ is the only thing that makes him swallow his spit and turn around to validate he was alone.

Curiosity was gnawing at him.

He stands slowly and exits the closet, the box in his hand, and a curious eye glancing at all the writing on it.

"Feel so real you won't know the difference," he says, laughing to himself.

It had been several centuries since he had the experience of laying with a mortal. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but he has no doubt that a simple plastic orifice wouldn't be able to replicate it.

Still, his curiosity gets the best of him. He quickly unwraps the box, like a child at Christmas. His face and mannerisms make it appear he has no interest, but how fast he is opening the box betrays his most inner thoughts.

He slides the toy from the container to find it looks merely like a large flashlight. He uncaps the top and finds himself face to face with a peach-colored – and not at all lifelike – representation of the external female anatomy.

He looks at it, huffs in amusement, and tosses the box to the side. He puts it up to his face and smells it. It smells like plastic.

He raises his lip in disgust. It doesn't have the odor of a woman, and there is _no way_ it feels like a woman does.

He sticks his finger inside, disgust with what the humans have created. Once his finger slides in, suddenly that disgust falls. He slides his finger back and forth. This plastic is much smoother than the plastic of its casing, or really _any_ of other plastic for that matter. It feels like flesh, soft, and inviting. He stares, a hint of desire flickering in his eyes as he fingers the toy.

Then, he slides in another one, his eyelids slowly lowering as he remembers those moments so many centuries ago. This plastic is soft like a woman, but it is nowhere near as warm or wet.

Still, his fingers find the cavity of this toy inviting. He stands there for longer than he probably should, fully nude and fingering the toy.

He catches himself staring, wondering what it would feel like to bury his cock inside. He clears his throat and pulls his fingers out before tossing the toy on the bed.

"So, preoccupied with one thing," he says, scoffing.

"No wonder he isn't able to get much done. No wonder it's so easy to manipulate his life."

He clears his throat and walks back into the closet to finish getting dressed.

If Lucifer had spent half the amount of time paying attention to the strings Michael pulled, maybe he would be here and not in hell.

But no, his brother – the one obsessed with all things desire – spends his time fucking plastic and drinking liquor.

He scoffs.

What a waste.

So Michael stands there, back in front of the row of pants and matching jackets. He lets out a large sigh, wondering how he will choose. The wrong color could mean the difference between the Detective believing Michael or not.

His mind briefly moves to her, a woman.

He wonders, if he does this right, if that means she will want to copulate with him. He huffs, this idea being far more arousing than it should be. Especially considering how much it would hurt Lucifer.

He imagines Lucifer's dismay to find out that Michael had fornicated with his Detective before Lucifer could. Had filled her so much with his seed that maybe she would even _prefer_ Michael over him.

Michael nods, a sinister grin on his face. He chuckles at the idea before his face falls and his jaw tenses.

No.

He was here to sew chaos, to get Lucifer back to earth so everyone could see just how selfish he truly is. Besides, then the Detective might get attached to him. The last thing he needed was a mortal bothering him in the Silver City for sex. What would the others think?

He sighs - one thing at a time.

First, the suit.

He reaches out and grabs the first suit he sees. He walks out of the bedroom and lays the jacket and pants on the bed. His eyes snap to the fleshlight.

He stares at it for far too long before he shakes his head and walks back to the closet.

Why would Lucifer choose to copulate with a plastic _thing_ when he had mortals?

It wasn't lifelike enough to warrant the loss of dignity, despite the advert.

It would be far too unpleasant. Far too cold and dry.

He grabs a shirt from a nearby hanger, a belt from a drawer, and the underwear from the dressing chair before walking back out towards the bed. He sets his clothes down in front of him, trying to decide if it's "Lucifer" enough.

Something feels off. Even with these clothes on, he would look far too …stiff.

"Cufflinks!" he says to himself, nodding before heading back into the closet.

"It’s the stupid small details,” he huffs.

But that was Lucifer, ever so particular.

He approaches a wardrobe and slides open drawer after drawer until he finds the one with perfectly paired and set out cufflinks.

He closes the drawer before turning his eyes back to the open toy chest.

He hated having everything out in view for him to look at, and Lucifer certainly wouldn’t have his items splayed out so carelessly.

He sighs and sets the cufflinks on top of the wardrobe before turning to the trunk. Here, he carefully puts back all the boxes and sets the tray on top. Then he reluctantly grabs the beaded toy off the floor and drops it on top of the tray. His eyes turn up to the lid as he is about to close it, and he stares directly at a bottle that reads “personal lubricant.” It hangs freely in a mesh pocket sewn to the lid.

He pauses, staring at the bottle as if trying to use his fear mojo on it. He looks behind him again, verifying he is alone, before reaching for the bottle.

He reads it before popping the cap and squeezing a drop onto his fingers. He rubs it between his hands, his eyes growing darker with intent.

He supposes if he were to impersonate Lucifer, he really needed to _inhabit_ the mind of Lucifer.

Right?

Which means he needed to be more … _liberal_ with his body.

Right?

Lucifer was definitely more limber than Michael. True, he wasn’t broken, but he also copulated way more than Michael did.

He pauses. When was the last time he even took himself into hand? He thinks for a few seconds, then a few moments as his mind draws a blank.

It _had_ been a while.

He _was_ trying to emulate his brother to gain the trust of his most loved mortal companions.

And …so it would only make sense that he attempt to be as … _loose_ as Lucifer. You know, since he is taking over his life and all. When in Rome, as the mortals might say.

Right?

And what would Lucifer care? Lucifer would never find out. Certainly, he would have enough resources to purchase another one of these toys before Lucifer got back to see how much he had ruined Lucifer’s life.

Right?

Right.

Of course.

Yes.

His mind made up, he walks out towards the bed and sets the bottle next to the fleshlight.

He puts a single hand on his hip as he surveys the bed before narrowing his eyes.

A towel, he needed a towel.

He turns to enter the bathroom, where he grabs a towel and returns to the bed.

He spreads the towel on the bed and before carefully sitting on it. His eyes cautiously turn down to the fleshlight, as if he had to convince it as well.

He taps his thighs, fighting with himself and the last remaining bit of his reservation. At least his mind is unsure. His body seems fully game as he is already halfway to a full erection.

He clears his throat before grabbing the bottle of lube and squeezing a bit onto his hand.

Best start with what he is familiar with, he supposes.

He grabs his cock and begins to stroke it, his hand glides easily in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

It responds eagerly to his touch, and he closes his eyes. It had been long since he had felt anything this … _wet_.

Slowly he leans back onto the bed, his feet firmly on the floor. He strokes himself, the occasional grunt or moan leaving his lips. Even his masturbation seems stiff and unlively; mechanical.

He closes his eyes, trying to will his body to relax into it.

He focuses on his touch, on the sensation of his cock gliding through his tight grip.

He imagines it is one of the women from the roman baths he used to visit. Back when knowing angels existed wasn’t as taboo or hidden. When he became a part of their pantheon. He would venture into the baths, watch the women undress, and pleasure himself to the thoughts of their bodies. They were coy and pretended not to watch, but allowed him to use them as muses anyway.

He remembers how one of them had broken away from the group and decided that laying with an angel was worth the ire she would garner from her family, her husband.

He huffs, his hips now aiding his strokes with soft and somewhat eager pumps. His eyes open, and he stares at the ceiling. It doesn’t remind him of the ceiling above his private quarters, the one in the silver city. His eyebrow furrows, and he sits up, finding himself instead in his brother's penthouse.

This isn’t weird, right? Pleasuring oneself in a sibling’s home? His eyes turn to the fleshlight, and that thought is immediately kicked out of his head.

No, _this_ is weird.

He grabs it and sinks a finger into it again. It’s still so dry. He takes the bottle of lubricant and empties liberal amounts inside the toy before trying again with his finger. It’s wet now, incredibly so.

“Mm,” he hums, his dick jumping at the thought.

He lets go of a tense sigh and nods, “Okay,” he says before gripping his cock and positioning it at the opening.

Then, he slides the toy down onto him. It gives resistance, much like a woman’s body would.

It is tight and, thanks to a liberal amount of lube, wet. He watches as it takes him in, stretching the way a woman might.

He huffs, in awe at just how good it feels.

He groans the further it sinks down and shudders as an electric shock rolls up his spine.

He understands now. He understands why someone would have one of these.

He continues pushing the toy down onto him, sinking himself further into the toy until he can feel the hard plastic at the end, begging for relief from the pressure.

Then, he slowly pulls himself out, and his body completely falls limp on the bed, his eyes rolled back in his head.

The wetness makes his toes curl, and the additional texture rubbing against the sensitive head of his cock was also a plus. This wasn’t like a woman, but it was the next best thing.

He sinks the toy back down onto him quickly, wanting to feel that pressure again.

He is alone, and it’s probably a good thing because the sound comes out of him is less than angelic.

He slowly pulls it off him again, and he is about crawling out of his skin with pleasure.

He continues this way, sinking the toy up and down his cock.

“Heavens!” he gasps in awe, watching himself as he glides in and out of the toy easily.

Eventually, instead of thrusting, he chooses to stay still and work the toy with his hand.

His bicep tenses and relaxes with each push and pull.

His head falls back, and he remembers the last time - and the first time - he ever felt a woman.

It was at a feast to honor the changing of the seasons, and the whole village had spent days preparing. He had watched and approved of everything, as it turns out being the only being with wings in a town of mortals makes you a leader of sorts. He had caught the eye of a married woman, and while others prepared for the feast, she took him beneath the banquet table.

He imagines she is still on him, her body rising and falling on his cock, taking all of him. She uses his cock for her own pleasure, her hand over his mouth to force him to be silent.

Still, he groans, having not felt anything so …gratifying.

That is when she shushed him.

“My husband is right there,” she said, pointing to two men standing mere feet away.

Beneath the long white tablecloth on the table, only their sandals are visible, but he could tell they were facing each other. They were completely unaware of how deep he was inside of her.

He found it exciting, and to be fair, so did she. But she was also afraid. The fear poured off of her, like wine into a glass. It radiated from her and only heightened his senses. She felt like a million fingers touching him all at once, and her pussy felt so good.

He couldn’t help but grab her hips and slam them down onto him, sinking himself as deep as her body would let him go. He had zero care who heard how wet she was, or who heard her ample bottom clapping against his thighs.

Michael groans and opens his eyes, jettisoned out of his memory. His eyes turn to the toy, unable to not watch as it stretches with each push and pull.

He grunts, his body heating up, his chest red with arousal.

“What a lucky piece of plastic you are,” he huffs, “to be filled so properly with an angel’s cock.”

It doesn’t respond, of course, because it is a toy and not a mortal. One-point deduction for this item.

But what if it could be a mortal? He asks himself.

Perhaps one of the young women from the club downstairs? He recalls them being eager to join Lucifer in his penthouse.

But he supposes that was before.

Before the Detective.

His mind falls on her, and he grins. That is when his memory switches to fantasy, one that involves her.

He would imagine visiting her at work, ready to start a pointless day of finding justice for dead mortals. She would be so happy to see them back together she would be unable to contain herself. She would pull him into a room at her workplace and pull him close.

There she would strip off her clothes and force him onto the nearest flat surface, maybe the floor. He would happily fall against it, ready to be used by her.

Then she would sink down on him, her pussy stretching as he fills her. She would be tight, and warm and wet. She would ride him with gusto, as mortals tend to do when they’ve been deprived of need for long.

He begins to pant, his bicep starting to burn with the speed he is stroking himself with the toy.

It doesn’t stop him, though.

His fantasy continues.

His Detective would whisper Lucifer’s name as she enjoyed Michael's cock. It should make his erection go away, to hear his brother’s name like that. But knowing that the Detective is so unquestionably his, knowing that he could have her and feel her … it arouses him beyond expression.

He imagines it is her as he strokes himself with the fleshlight. It squishes against his skin, leaving trails of sticky fluid on his cock as he eases it in and out.

He bites his lip, wanting to speak an obscenity. It feels so good. _She_ feels so good.

He imagines the noises she would make, her hand pressed against his chest for balance.

As she let his cock fill her insides and tickle the spot inside of her that made her lose control. She would hold her mouth closed, stifling her moans to prevent anyone from hearing. Still, she would grind her body against his, chasing her own release. He imagines she would be afraid, afraid to get caught getting her pussy stuffed at work. The fear is … overpowering.

She would use him for her own pleasure, his body instead of his brothers. She would enjoy him, instead of his brother. She would climax on him and –

He groans and huffs, his body tight as he presses the fleshlight flush to his body, his cock as deep as it will let him. He can feel the pressure of the plastic at the end, begging for relief. Seconds later, he is spilling himself into the toy.

He moans, his entire body tensing as his cock spasms through spurt. Each one is more intense than the last.

When the feeling has reaches his crescendo, and he can feel cum merely trickling out of him now, his body relaxes against the bed.

He is spent, yet despite being done, he continues to slowly push and pull the toy along his cock.

He allows “her” to ride him until he becomes painfully sensitive, even past that.

His cock would not be his, but hers to do as she wants. To do as she pleases. The thought makes his body shudder, and he cums again. It is less powerful, and doesn’t cause him to ejaculate, but he can still feel the pulse as if he were.

Only then does he relax, his arm rested against his body. His cock still inside the fleshlight but softening.

He lays still for a very long time, his body utterly useless. When his eyes open again, his lids are heavy, and there is a twinkle behind his eyes. It looks like happiness or joy.

Whatever it is, it is temporary. As clarity enters his eyes, it leaves and is replaced by something far less pleasant.

Bitterness.

He sits up slowly, his body leaning to one side, before carefully sliding himself from the toy. His cock glistens with a mixture of semen and lube.

He looks at it, disgusted.

Sighing, he stands and strolls into the bathroom and drops the fleshlight in the sink. He runs the faucet for a little bit to wash his hands and turns it off. He will deal with the toy later.

He cleans himself off briefly before walking back to the bed and putting on the suit he chose. It would be his mask for the day. When he is done, he walks over to the bar and grabs the shot of gin he poured earlier. He downs it and hums at the burn.

He sets the glass on the bar and turns his eyes to the mirror behind it.

He stares at himself, but his glance isn’t any emotion that could be read as happy, or sad, or even angry.

It’s resignation.

His body is more limber than before but still stiff.

Still broken.

“Lucifer Morningstar,” he says again, affecting his accent.

“Mor-ning Sta-h,” he says.

He turns and presses the button to the penthouse elevator.

It was time he went to see the Detective.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Follow me on www.hrfiction.tumblr.com for fic updates and junk.


End file.
